The Companion of Lady Holmeshire

by Debra Brown

  “Do I dare to open this box?” Winnie knew exactly what she had long wanted, and so had Wills. In one motion, opening the cover, she flew into a standing position and gasped, “Oh, yes!”

  The equestrian and his guard returned quickly from Ascot to see what inside of it had created such a rapturous response. And there it was, finally. “I’ve waited so long, you stubborn boy who would not sit for a portrait!”

  “I was busy here, Mama, and I had the time there. It was planned all along, anyway!”

  “It takes my breath away, your father standing there beside you! How dear you are!” A subtle image of his father was part of the background, as though he were standing behind and to the side of Wills. “I never realized that you took that portrait of him along.”

  “Why do you think I hung it in such a secluded place for so long, Mama? It was so you would not know when I took it. You would have never allowed that, would you? But I took care of it; I was most severe with the footmen and have returned it in one piece.” Wills pushed the cart aside. “Tomorrow we’ll look at the boxes in the north wing, Mama, but for today, I’ve changed my mind. I want to rest.”

  Winnie sank to her seat, her excitement and astonishment taking her strength away. They all sat down. Nicky, thankful not to have a boring book, was feeding his horse a muffin. Emma had stars in her eyes, dreaming of wearing her pale amethyst dress and new necklace at Belgrave Square in London. But mothers delight in their sons staying dear, so nothing matched the joy shown in the tearful eyes of Winifred.

  ~Chapter 3~

  Nostalgia and the Slumping Slate

  On the land below Holmeshire Hill, to the south, was an ancient village. Pasturage and woolen mills lay on the outskirts, inland from the dangerous moors. On each end of town hung rusted iron-framed signs declaring its name, “Holmeshire.” Old and new buildings were crowded together along narrow, rutted streets, all of which opened to the cobblestones making up the Village Square.

  Villagers bartered; farmers traded crops. Spinners, weavers and fabricators worked the heaps of wool into yarn and goods, but sales in depressed times were painfully slow. Shops and construction struggled.

  No workhouse had been built in Lord Holmeshire’s domain; the elderly and destitute were in a suitable almshouse of old. A small school had been established for young ones to attend once the summer crops were in. Potholes were scarcely filled during these hard times, so the blacksmith had a bit of work, though the inn and stables cared for few travelers.

  On Sundays, come what may, the bells of the great 1500s church, just outside the village, rang the day in and out. People streamed in its direction from everywhere, and the Holmeshires came down the hill in a shining leather carriage.

  “Thank you, ma’am, for allowing me to continue my own form of worship.” Emma deeply appreciated the goodness of the two toward her. It built an unbreakable loyalty and a desire to please them. She pulled on her gloves as they passed through the imposing gate of the centuries-old stone fence surrounding the castle. “I so love going to the chapel. I’ve never been comfortable in that huge church.”

  “As you have said, dear girl, worship must come from the heart.” Winifred knew that Emma had always been serious about this. She had been allowed by the Squire who raised her, at the bidding of his merciful wife, to go off alone to a thirteenth century tiny, slate chapel on the far side of the village. “And perhaps there is a reason why you so love that little chapel!”

  Upon arriving at the huge Supplicant’s Church with its Gothic spires, Emma left the landau and curtsied her goodbyes. The sky-high towers of the chantry were the source of disquieting legends, and winds passing between them often made daunting howls. Gravestones filled the garden on every side and caused her to worry for her unknown parents.

  Emma was eager to leave it behind, and she walked across a mossy stone bridge over the river. She worked her way against the flow of a receiving line of villagers as they flocked to the eerie scene that she was abandoning. They were used to her different ways on Sundays, and most had stopped trying to coax her to join them. She occasionally reminded some, a bit firmly, that Jesus preached on a hillside; surely she could pray in a chapel?

  The clanging bells seemed to join in with many happy voices that greeted her on her way. “Emma, come have tea with us soon! Can you? Are you allowed?” “Emma, hello, hello!” She smiled as she passed the beloved villagers and old familiar buildings—the stone blacksmith’s shop, a dilapidated pottery barn, and the half-timbered bakery with baked delights in the window. The bakery would open for one hour after church to sell the week’s remaining goods at half price.

  She peeked into various windows and even tried a door. Memories flooded her mind as she passed the girl’s entry to the schoolhouse—how she stood and giggled there with the neighbor’s daughters, being teased by a lad when her braid fell down and having picked flowers for the sickly Mrs. Carrington from a planter near the door. She remembered feeding a stray cat some of the fish that she had bought for Squire Carrington’s family, which had caused her a bit of trouble.

  “Emma, beautiful child! Look at you!” The familiar voice brought her back to the present, and she shook off the memories.

  “Hello, Mrs. Amberton! I have not had the pleasure of seeing you since I returned; it is wonderful to see you again, and it is so delightful to have Anne up at the Hall with us!” Emma felt conspicuous in her fine coat and silk ribbons. She covered her ruby with her gloved hand.

  “Ah, it was hard to give her up, you know, she did hemming for me, and seams! But the little girls are taking it up now, though they must quickly improve. Do not worry, for I shall make experts of them all. You look a princess, Miss Emma. Let me take a look at you!” She pulled the anxious Emma’s hand down and smiled with content at the ruby. “Stand still, girl, and I see you’ve been taught to stand properly, not like us village poor folk who are always bent over our work!”

  Emma felt pangs of guilt; poor Mrs. Amberton was indeed a bit bent over. “There is hope for my girls, I see. Soon someone may take to them in this way! Perhaps you will marry, and my Elizabeth will take your place.” The matron sighed, “Oh, it could never be. You were a squire’s daughter. But one can never tell. At least my daughters are not stitching on dresses all day and night now, like their old Mama.” She paused, then revealed sudden horror—her eyes widened and she threw her rough hands over her mouth. “Oh, surely the Lord Holmeshire has his eyes set on you! Of course! You are, after all, a squire’s daughter.”

  “No, ma’am, I am not his daughter; I was only his ward and no daughter. I am certain that you must recall. As to marriage, I have promised Lady Holmeshire that I will remain her companion, ma’am, and the Lord is engaged to a woman of his class.”

  “Of course, of course he is.” Embarrassed, she started to leave.

  Emma reached to comfort her and whispered, “Though I must confess to finding him terribly handsome.”

  Mrs. Amberton turned back, shifted her feet nervously and appealed, “Emma, I do desperately require more work and better paying customers. We eat rather poorly, and with the days being short, I must buy so many candles, you know. Do put in a good word for me upstairs there, Emma. I can fit a bodice like nobody can! Milady could come here, or I could come to her for fittings, that would be proper, and…and you could bring fine fabrics from London, and I could be seamstress to Milady! Course, I do not know the styles in London, but...” Frustrated with hardship, Mrs. Amberton sighed, “Emma, do remember us down here, please do!” Emma responded with a nod, a smile and a thrown kiss.

  She passed more buildings, more familiar trees and the Village Square. At last alone, with the townsfolk beyond the bridge, she held her hands out as though reliving the dancing of a circle of young girls going around and around on the square. How she had loved that dancing, the camaraderie and the feeling of the breeze through her hair. Most of those girls had never traveled far from Holmeshire and would spend their lives working long, exhausting da
ys, but she had been to London and returned by the age of two and twenty to live a contented life.

  Could it all be, perhaps, the engaging of her imagination, she wondered? It simply must be, but no, it was reality! She sat down on a bench and traced the initials she had once seen a boy carving on its arm, resigned, shaking her head at him all these years later. She shook it again, closing her eyes, to integrate and to endorse the new realities of her life. A cawing crow reminded her to wake up and be on her way, and she looked up defiantly, as she was treasuring her moments from years past and wonderment over the present.

  As she finally approached the old chapel, cradled in aged oaks at the southern entrance to the town, she sighed, amused at its appearance. Centuries of pushing winds, and crumbling of the slate, had left the hut slumping. She hoped aloud that no one would bump it over on her, and she laughed.

  A ledge outside a receded window held a potted plant—someone had paid tribute to the ancient site. The solid door, which struggled to keep the structure upright, was stressed by the pressure of its incline. It was difficult to open, and she did not dare to shut it behind her. Her breath caught from the musty air as she entered.

  Light from the doorway was dappled by leaves from the trees outside. The shifting windows were covered; some sunshine peeked in where the shutters failed to sit straight any longer. Two familiar benches faced what used to be a small altar—now just some toppled lumber.

  But the sincere Emma felt alone with her God there and could take time to enjoy the quiet and to think of what was in store for her life. She had often extended her stay beyond the duration of the preaching and praying at the church across town, but in this new life she must return before the stamping horses and impatient carriage would take their leave.

  On this occasion, Emma sat down and looked up for a moment. Thoughts of her good fortune and her life of comfort remained in her mind, and she nodded a peaceful smile. But questions crept in. She set her Bible to her side and laid her hands on her lap; she lifted one to run a finger across a seam of her glove. She removed the silken fabric and looked wistfully at the simple ring on her finger.

  Where did it come from, she wondered, this thin circle of gold? Winnie had given it to her before sending her to Miss Wathem’s home, but had told her that it was her own ring, not the lady’s. That was all she had been told, and there was no further explanation. Could it have been from her mother? Who were her dear parents? Were they dead or alive? Why did they abandon her? Where had she come from, she wondered. “From the Squire’s doorstep,” was all she had been told.

  The Squire’s doorstep. She closed her eyes, mystified, fingering the ring, and picturing herself—the infant in the basket with the white cotton blanket that Mrs. Carrington had kept for her. She held her breath. The ring...the doorstep...what sense did it make? Someone must know, but who would tell? She had questioned Winnie, but the lady had turned away quickly and did not reply. Emma opened her eyes, and they searched the dusty lines of the slate thoughtfully.

  A chilly wind rushed in; it restored her, again, to the present, and she remembered her purpose for the morning. She sighed away the burdensome mysteries of the past, and she picked up her Bible and opened it.

  She read aloud softly, “In the mountain of the height of Israel will I plant it; and it shall bring forth boughs, and bear fruit, and be a goodly cedar: and under it shall dwell all fowl of every wing; in the shadow of the branches thereof shall they dwell. And all the trees of the field shall know that I the LORD have brought down the high tree, have exalted the low tree, have dried up the green tree, and have made the dry tree to flourish: I the LORD have spoken and have done it.” She saw in it a comparison to her own life. “Dear Ezekiel,” she thought, “were you watching for my rise above my station? I was, to be sure, a most lowly tree, and I have been commended above myself!”

  She spent some time praying and reading more in her Bible, comparing scriptures to scriptures, searching for understanding; she could not accept that “mystery” was the answer to her heartfelt questions. What might God’s written tidings reveal to her, for why were they written if not to be understood? She read on. Time whispered upon occasion, as she read, in case she cared to remember that it was soon to have passed. She finished reading and made notes in her mind, etching in the fruits of her efforts, and then closed her guidebook.

  Strengthened, she gathered her things and went outside; pulling with her might to shut the door that bore up the chapel. She walked around it, thinking of its antiquity, but a gentle rain had begun, and the wind was whipping it into a mist. She had an eerie feeling of being watched. Looking around, she saw something move in the shadows, and fear gripped her. A tall ragged man staggered out of the trees toward her, looking intently at her and scowling, but then stood still. He was intoxicated, and would have approached her but for having had a drink too many. She was frightened. She turned and hurriedly wove her way through the village, back toward the security of the sound of people’s choral voices. She paused across the bridge from the church to look behind her. He had not followed.

  A shivering little boy, about 6 years old, approached her. “Ma’am,” he said. “Do you need some candles?”

  “Why are you not at church, little man?”

  “I must work, ma’am. I work in the candle shop.” She noticed that the shop had been recently whitened, and all the window glass had been replaced. The building was surrounded by lovely new plants, but this little boy was worn.

  “On Sunday morning?” she despaired.

  “Every day, ma’am. Then I can have some supper!” He looked up with hopeful eyes.

  “Thank you, child. I do not need candles. This money is just for you.” Emma gave the boy a florin and told him to have Mrs. Amberton make him a warm jacket. “Do not tell anyone you have some money, now, just give it to her. Tell her to make the coat big enough for two winters. She will use good thick wool. And you wear the coat, now; you wear it, so that you do not catch your death! And go indoors, where you are safe.” He smiled broadly and slipped the coin into his pocket and a candle into hers. Then, unsure of this display of manners, he ran away.

  The singing had stopped, and the church garden would soon be inhabited by the living. Emma crossed the bridge. As she neared the church, she looked sadly over the ancient mossy gravestones in the place where Mrs. Carrington now peacefully slept. Some stones were large and notable; others were mere nameplates. Some names were blurred with age, and others were sharp and clear—“Richard James,” “Hilda Prichert,” “A Young Traveler.”

  Eventually, people came ambling out of the church, shaking the hand of the priest and chatting about the cold breezes and the appearance of daffodils. She had known and loved these people all her life. Elderly Mr. and Mrs. Teak, with him leaning on a stick, came out and smiled. The Missus had once made a warm blanket for Emma’s childhood bed. Lovely Lydia Jansby, the schoolmistress, waved proudly at her Emma. The tavern keeper, Mr. Bealle, bowed his head to her, and on his arm was the shroud maker, the widow, Mrs. Perry. “Emma, you do have your burial society subscription, do you not? But why would you need that now? The Countess will gladly bury you!” Following behind her, with a hand on her shoulder, was Violet Benton, her sister, maker of mourning wear. “We never miss church, Miss Emma, and you should be here, too!” Business was always good, should they keep themselves close to the church.

  Mr. Seely, a farmworker whose Sunday best was giving out, approached Emma. “There was a man here looking for you, asking everyone about you. A tall lanky man with a jutting jaw. His clothes had holes; his shoes were no better than mine. Did not give me his name.”

  Emma was puzzled, realizing now that the man was indeed intending to approach her. “I believe that I saw him myself! I do not know who he would be! I cannot imagine,” she replied, as she reflected anxiously.

  “I told him you do not come here. I did not tell him where you were; I did not like the look of him. Here he was drunk on Sunday morning!”
r />   “Thank you, sir, thank you. I am sure you did the right thing.”

  Emma was uneasy; had someone in this trusting village carelessly told him where she was? Who was he? What did he want? She dwelt on the matter until the time came to leave. It was not someone she knew, she thought, nor did Mr. Seely know him. He was not from Holmeshire. How strange, for she did not know anyone from any other place except for Miss Wathem, her elderly friend, and a few tutors! She mentioned it to Winnie, expecting to be comforted and told not to worry, but her disquieting expression showed far more alarm than Emma expected.

  “You must not go to the chapel alone any longer! You must stay with us!”

  The footman’s presence interrupted and informed Winifred of the arrival of the carriage. The bishop approached, and she told him that she had concerns to tend and must decline the invitation he had extended. “But do send advance notice and we will be happy to schedule a visit to your lovely manor,” she acquiesced.

  The family mounted their carriage after the appropriate waving and accepting of homage. The horses turned and began the task of returning the family to their home. “Take it slowly,” Wills yelled to the driver, “I want to see my childhood playgrounds on the way. I am thinking of going out to play this afternoon.” He raised his eyebrows at the tyke beside him as if to entice him along.

  “Are you hungry, Emma?” Winnie asked, “Cook will have left some good things for us. And Barreby will be fretting until he can serve it.” Sundays were unusual; nobody was polishing anything. Most were gone visiting family or whiling the day away; a few would have followers in for a rewarmed, but gracious, supper. Barreby did not trust people from outside in the house, but he had been told to allow friends and family of the servants downstairs on Sundays. “And how is he taking to receiving orders from you, Emma?”

  “He could not be more pleased than to have another order.”